


Prompt fills, and some things nobody asked for

by persuna



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persuna/pseuds/persuna
Summary: Since finding any of these where I originally posted them was nigh on impossible for me, let alone anyone else, I've scraped together my small number of one-shots, most of them previously posted on tumblr.Chapter 1: "I woke up, and you were gone." tommyjon (from around June 2018)Chapter 2: Five reasons Lovett may have had for shaving his head (multiple ships, from that time we thought he'd shaved his head)Chapter 3: Unprompted exhausted tommyjon at the airport (from around February 2018)Chapter 4: "Please come home, we miss you"(OT3, March 2020)
Relationships: Jon Favreau/Jon Lovett, Jon Favreau/Jon Lovett/Tommy Vietor, Jon Lovett/Tommy Vietor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39





	1. "I woke up, and you were gone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt “I woke up, & you were gone” and the pairing tommyjon, originally posted [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/persuna/175345017893).

Surprise was not quite the right word for the dull gut punch of opening his eyes and seeing the bed next to him bare and empty—surprise implied Lovett hadn’t on some level anticipated such an outcome, let alone experienced it first-hand on several occasions—but a certain disappointment was natural. 

Some of the events of last night could be corroborated through hard evidence; there was a human head sized indentation in the pillow that confirmed a person had lain there, at least briefly, before fleeing into the night. Other things, like it being different this time, could absolutely have been a figment of Lovett’s imagination. An inability to discern the difference between the passion of the moment and a person’s actual feelings for him was something of a hallmark of his romantic encounters, so really, he should be used to this.

Just like he should be used to his other signature move of picking out people he knew—he fucking _knew_—he would have to face the next day, and the day after that, and every day for the foreseeable future because they were a cornerstone of his work and personal life. This time, he couldn’t even get out of town until at least 2020.

Ugh. Whatever. Another awkward interlude in the unstoried romantic history of Jon Lovett. Everything was still hazy enough that he could almost certainly close his eyes, sleep through the thick of his disappointment, and wake up grumpy in an hour or two, able to pretend his bad mood was inexplicable. Lovett closed his eyes and got started on his excellent plan.

Lovett had always been good at falling asleep, but as he did his subconscious, a fickle ally as every, couldn’t help but nudge him back into a time with a very similar emotional landscape. At least the numbness of encroaching sleep left him slightly detached from it. He drifted off with the phantom sense of his tiny, dingy room in DC around him, of his cheap, scratchy sheets, and the confusing roommate on the other side of the wall, flickering unpredictably between closed-off and one of best friends he’d ever had. Of all the silence and secrets, national and personal, clogging up the space between them.

Then, a noise, and Lovett’s eyes opened to his new home, to California sun seeping in and high (but not pointlessly high, that was a marketing gimmick) thread-count sheets. To Tommy, all golden and healthy, tossing his shoes carelessly into the corner, like he was here to stay. He had helped himself to one of Lovett’s shirts and the inadequate sleeves were straining pathetically around his ridiculous biceps. Abruptly, Lovett felt like he might cry. Now it turned out they weren’t real, all his stupid abandonment feelings were taking a rush at the barricade.

It was second nature to cover up this vulnerability by griping. “You’re going to stretch that shirt out.” It came out more aggressively than he’d intended.

“I’ll take it off then,” said Tommy, and obliged. He looked much, much too good to be true.

Lovett hid his face in his pillow, too wrong footed and overwhelmed by this sudden turn of events to respond. Or to respond in a way that wouldn’t fuck things up. The bed dipped next to him.

“You okay?” asked Tommy, because he asked intrusive personal questions like that, now that he wasn’t afraid of being asked in return.

It would be easy to shrug off his concern and keep making the same choices. But making the same choices only left you stranded in the same place. Lovett unburied his head from his bedding to look at Tommy, lying next to him now, concerned, and maybe a little wary. “I woke up, and you were gone,” Lovett hated the thread of neediness in his voice, but Tommy looked understanding, not repulsed, and Lovett shifted towards him and Tommy lifted his hand, and through some complicated exchange of non-verbal cues Lovett ended up tucked under Tommy’s arm, a little too warm and a lot too happy.

“It’s the crack of dawn. What could you possibly need to do that involves abandoning me like a sordid one night stand to a cold, lonely bed?”

Tommy looked pointedly over at the decidedly non-dawn light seeping through the blinds. “If you kept anything other than dog food and Diet Coke in the house, I wouldn’t have had to go out and buy us bagels.”

“That’s what Postmates is for.” Lovett reached a hand out for his phone. “Let me show you the breakfast wonders that could have awaited a more modern man.”

“Or,” said Tommy, capturing Lovett’s hand before it could pick up his phone and shamelessly leveraging his superior size to bend Lovett to his will, “we could agree not to look at Twitter till lunchtime, and actually have a relaxing Sunday morning.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t tweeted at least twice since sunrise.”

“Maybe I was too busy watching you drool in your sleep,” which was definitely an evasion.

“Creepy,” said Lovett, with a great deal of satisfaction. “Since I’ve already invited a stalker into my bed, I guess I’d better placate you with my body.”


	2. Five reasons Lovett may have had for shaving his head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cracky little thing I wrote when the fandom was in the depths of despair over Lovett’s hair, which he appeared to have shaved off entirely. He turned out to still have some on the top, hiding under his hat, but for a while things got pretty dark. Originally posted on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/persuna/168714273253).

**1\. Practicality**

“How did this happen?” asked Tommy, scissors poised to chop out yet another uneven chunk of Lovett’s hair.

“Haven’t you ever taken a nap in a diner booth and only discovered that the bottom of the table was covered with chewing gum afterwards? Your prep school elitism and lack of connection with the everyman is showing Thomas.”

Tommy shook his head, and went deep to get the next hank out, blades brushing Lovett’s scalp.

Fuck, he was going to look like he had mange by the time this was done.

**2\. Keeping up his end of the deal**

“I’m not saying that Jones is wavering on Trump because I was wavering on my promise to the universe, and I don’t believe in magical thinking, but… on the off-chance”. Lovett pressed the clippers into Favs’ hand and sat down facing the mirror.  
Favs bit his lip, but accepted the clippers, felt their heft in his hand.

“I said that if a Democrat won in Alabama I would shave my head, and I intend to stand by my word. We all have sacrifices to make for The Resistance,” said Lovett. “Now get the fuck on with it before I chicken out and Jones goes full Kylo Ren.”

With a deep breath and one last caress of Lovett’s curls, Favs flicked the switch.

**3\. A cover-up**

“Sometimes things go so wrong you have to burn the whole damn edifice down and start all over again,” said Lovett darkly.

“Okay Susan Sarandon,” replied Tommy, “let’s not get hysterical. We are still talking about your hair, right?”

“Do you remember that time on ‘How I Met Your Mother’ when Marshall got disastrous cool guy tips and then shaved his head?”

Tommy nodded.

“Well then.”

**4\. Coercion from an overenthusiastic groomer (aka I start to grasp at straws)**

“You let your neighbour shave your head?” said Favs, at a volume that bordered on yelling. Tommy hushed him, but looked equally horrified with what was hiding under Lovett’s hat.

“Well I couldn’t let her shave Pundit again! You saw my mentions last time. And Laura really wanted to show me how good her new clippers are”.

Favs was not impressed. “Here’s a radical idea. You could just not let her shave anything.”

“You may not appreciate it, but I’m doing this for all of us,” Lovett held his hand out for his hat, but Tommy kept hold of it, eyes still fixed on Lovett’s head.

“Are you claiming to have been blackmailed into your bad decisions?” he asked, with a snort of laughter.

“She’s never explicitly threatened anything, but let’s just say I want to keep her on my side.”

Seeing that Lovett meant it, Tommy stopped laughing and frowned. “Are you serious? What could possibly be worse than your glowing white scalp?”

“She’s got a clear view of my house, and the three of us have not always been that careful about closing the bedroom blinds of an evening. Or the living room curtains. I don’t think the kitchen even has any.”

Favs’ indignation flickered out. Wordlessly, Tommy handed Lovett back his hat.

**5\. Honestly thought it would look good???**

Lovett rubbed his hand mournfully over his shorn head, and made a face at himself in the mirror. “Ugh,” he said, “What was I thinking? I should have known I couldn’t pull the buzzcut off like you did”.

“You thought I pulled that off?” said Favs, incredulous.

“Oh save me the false modesty,” shot back Lovett, “we all know you looked like the sexiest jock in the high school.”

“If this is part of a bit to make fun of me for a haircut I had five years ago, I think you’ve overshot a little.”

"That’s not-” Lovett cut himself off, “Look. I’m having a bad day. Let’s not also mock the humble fantasies of a younger, more impressionable me.”

“Fantasies?” asked Favs, a strange feeling rising up his throat.

A blush crept over Lovett’s face and, Favs noted with interest, his newly revealed scalp. “That was the height of my hopeless crush on you,” he said, with unconvincing nonchalance.

Tentative, Favs reached up to run his palm over Lovett’s head, the distinctive texture of the soft bristles familiar, evocative of long, surreal nights brainstorming with Lovett over speeches, of being young and confident and making reckless romantic choices.

“Maybe not so hopeless” he said, as Lovett shivered under his hand.


	3. Exhausted at the airport tommyjon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 1.5k of self-indulgent, ridiculous, unedited tommyjon thoughts that an off-hand mention of them needing a tour manager and being unable to do anything, in a not at all serious ad that really had nothing to with that, made me have all weekend. I DON’T EVEN KNOW OKAY. It’s exhausted Lovett being met at the airport by Tommy and then tenderly cosseted. That’s all. Irredeemable. 
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/persuna/171285057643).

Lovett makes it through the rigmarole of airport security by rote and luck. The whole process is a blur, but he concentrates on keeping hold of his suitcase and travelling in the general direction the crowd is moving and somehow ends up stumbling towards the exit. It’s been, to say the least, a hell of a week: PSA shows in three cities, ‘Lovett or Leave It’ following it in two and an avalanche of extra heinous bullshit from DC that has not lent itself to light entertainment. Poor planning on his part meant he hadn’t even flown back with the rest of the gang, but gone straight on to New York for one more ‘Lovett or Leave It’ taping. Then he’d been so desperate to get back and have an extra day of weekend with Tommy that he’d booked onto an early flight. A choice he’d bitterly regretted ever since, starting when he struggled out of his hotel at oh dark thirty in the morning, continuing on through his flight being delayed for four hours, and being forced to check his bag, and definitely not ending with the flight itself, which was a turbulent ride between the man with the world’s widest shoulders and smallest bladder—a bladder which necessitated countless trips to the toilet until Jon wanted to knock the bottle of water from the man’s hands and scream until one of them was ejected from the plane—and the unmedicated female version of Favs, who kept her hand clenched uncompromisingly on their shared armrest and her leg jiggling ceaselessly for the entire seven hours. Then the queues. Jon can’t even think about the queues if he doesn’t want to cry. In short, he’s exhausted. Worse than exhausted. He’s whatever lies beyond a third or fourth wind, all strength and words wrung out of him, done with the the week and the day and making decisions and putting on a show. Everything feels strange and far away and alien.

“Lovett!” he hears. He’s fairly sure that’s the name he went by when he was a fully functioning human being, before his life became nothing but endless series of air-travel themed torments, so he turns towards it.

There’s Tommy striding over. His wonderful, reliable boyfriend Tommy, meeting him at the airport with a smile, even though he has to have been stuck in a godforsaken airport hellscape for ages himself. Jon should probably say something to him, but he can’t think of anything appropriate, like human language, so instead he leans his forehead on Tommy’s chest when he gets close enough. It’s the first good thing Jon’s body has experienced in as long as he can remember. Tommy brings his arms up to give him a hug, rocks him back and forth a couple of times, and it gets even better.

Jon’s arms are too heavy and unwieldy for him to lift them. One of them is still holding his suitcase, and figuring out how to handle that situation is too complicated. He leaves his arms where they are, turns his face so his cheek is resting on Tommy’s chest, and leans more of his weight against him.

This is a mistake. Tommy is so comfortable his body mistakes him for an orthopaedic mattress and starts to shut down. Once that process begins, muscles relaxing and eyelids growing heavier, Jon knows he should pull back. There are literally miles to go before he sleeps. But he’s already rolling down the slope and it’s already going to be horrible to claw his way back so he may as well just…

“Whoa, not yet,” says Tommy, taking hold of his shoulders and straightening him up. He studies Jon critically.

Jon concentrates on saying upright. His body is an unsteady jenga tower, its parts barely balancing on each other, liable to spill over onto the ground at the slightest touch and shatter irreparably.

“No more back to back tours,” continues Tommy with a frown, “it’s too much. You look like hell.”

Mournfully, Jon nods. He can still nod. Some forms of communication are left to him yet.

Something touches Jon’s hand, and he looks down at it, startled. A hand is taking the handle of his suitcase away from him. Jon’s eyes trace up the arm attached to the hand and find Tommy at the top. That’s okay then. He lets his suitcase go, unconcerned. Tommy will take care of it. Then the hand is back, taking hold of his, and he’s being led across LAX, or wherever the hell they are. He trusts, towards home.

The rest of the journey gets confused and segmented. There’s a series of stairs and doorways, different every time Jon looks around and tries to absorb where he is. Someone shoves him down, gentle but firm, and he’s in the passenger seat of a car. The normally lengthy drive from the airport passes in a series of long blinks. Tommy’s voice is there, and Jon wonders if he’s listening to PSTW, but then he realises it’s the real live version of Tommy Viet*r, and he isn’t even listening, let alone replying. He manages to shift so he’s leaning against the window and give him a vague smile, so he’ll keep on doing the talking, which Jon likes.

Getting out of the car is hard, but Tommy takes both his hands and gives him a strong pull to get him standing, then guides him to their front door with a hand on his back when he’s at a loss where to go. A scrabble of paws and a couple of very restrained, appropriate barks meet them, and Jon’s arms regain the power of movement in time for him to accept the wriggling, furry bundle of Pundit that Tommy hands him and give her a proper greeting. It’s nice while it lasts, but thankfully, she’s taken away and set down before before he drops her.

Cuddling Pundit wakes Jon up enough to, under his own steam, kick his shoes off and successfully identify the bedroom door. Before he can get there he is thwarted by an uncharacteristically cruel Tommy, who takes hold of his arm and steers him off course into the bathroom.

“Sleep,” whines Jon.

“Just a few more minutes,” replies Tommy. “I’ll do the work and you’ll definitely be glad you let me. All you have to do is not fall over.” Tommy props Jon against the bathroom sink while he gets the shower going and strips his own clothes off. Even though he’s more efficient than seductive, it’s a good show. Distracting. When Tommy turns back to him and steps in close, Jon’s sort of forgotten what it’s in aid of.

“Up,” says Tommy. Jon blinks at him, confused, until something tugs at his t-shirt. Tommy is holding the hem of it in his hands. It takes a few long seconds to compute that he wants him to lift his arms up. He does, and Tommy wrestles the t-shirt over his head competently, even though Jon is objectively no help at all. He’s even closer when Jon’s head is finally free of the fabric, looking down into his face with a very Tommy mix of concern and amusement. Neither of them break eye contact as Tommy undoes Jon’s jeans and pushes them down, or when he crouches to pull down Jon’s boxers and lift first one of his feet, then the other out of the tangle of clothes.

The shower is a warm wash of sensation, sweeping the distance Jon has been feeling from the world away and leaving him somehow more awake and more exhausted at the same time, back in his body however miserable it is in there. Alone, he’d maybe be competent to stand under the spray for five minutes but—thankfully—he isn’t alone. Tommy is there, lathering and manoeuvring and rinsing him until he’s new all over, the residue of the interminable day sloughing off. When he’s thoroughly cleansed, Tommy turns the shower off and cocoons him in a huge towel, swaddled from the neck down like a baby. He can’t really move his limbs properly, but he doesn’t have to, doesn’t have to do anything except lean against Tommy and let him take care of him. A rock as ever, Tommy takes this in his stride, wrapping his long arms around Jon to hold him close, moving them up and down a little to dry him off. Jon is aching with tiredness, standing naked except for a towel in a steamy bathroom, but it’s maybe the safest and most soothed he has ever felt.

Without letting him go, Tommy starts to walk them both towards the bedroom. Or so Jon assumes. He leaves his eyes closed and lets Tommy gently shove him in whatever direction he wants, his feet shuffling backwards and his body held secure to Tommy’s chest.

It must be the bedroom that they end up in, because the next thing he knows he’s being unwrapped from the towel, tipped over onto soft sheets and re-wrapped in their duvet. When that seems to be an end to it Jon, with extreme difficulty, forces his eyes open and sees Tommy, at an open drawer, getting clothes out.

“Tommy-” he says, flipping a corner of the duvet back and reaching a hand out towards him.

“It’s six pm.”

The incoherent noise that Jon makes in reply must convey his intense desire for Tommy to get the fuck over there, because Tommy sighs, drops the jeans he’s holding on the floor and slides into bed instead, just in the right spot for Jon to latch an arm around his waist and snuggle into his side.


	4. “Please come home, we miss you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not previously posted on tumblr, but in response to a prompt from tommyandthejons on tumblr: “Please come home, we miss you.” and OT3

"And I decided to swing back up to Michigan." Tommy opened up his work calendar to check when he was scheduled to record. Being on the road for a while blurred details such as which the day of the week it was together, and he'd learned the hard way that he had to be certain of an internet connection in the lead up to a pod.

Usefully, this also let him avoid looking at the video call window and either Jon’s face. This wasn't the first time they'd spoken over the last ten days—despite Tommy's worst efforts, they still ran a company together—but it was the first call they'd had just the three of them. The first time they'd been even a digital approximation of alone together since he’d flown to Wisconsin and two days of interviews had morphed into an impromptu tour of swing states. Since Tommy had had a few too many drinks and accidentally revealed too much, fucking over his two most important relationships. He’d thought that Tanya was going to join them, but when he'd picked up the call it had just been Jon and Lovett on screen, no buffers at all. They weren't even in the office, where the last vestiges of professionalism lived, they were sitting at Jon's kitchen table. It was fine. This was business. Or at least, Tommy would keep it to business, like he should have done last time he saw them.

For a couple of beats too long, there was no response, forcing Tommy to click back to the call to check they were still connected.

They were still connected. Tommy let the pause continue, unsure what to say.

"You were already in Michigan last week," Jon replied, eventually. The picture was frozen on Jon with his mouth open and Lovett mid-blink, so Tommy didn't have to see the look on Jon's face, but he could tell from his tone that he was disappointed. It made Tommy's gut clench. He breathed through it. He had no reason to feel guilty, not about this at least. There was work to do and content to capture.

"And things have changed since then," Tommy picked up his phone to find the poll he'd seen earlier, "by more than five points. If I get on the ground, interview some actual people, maybe we can see what's pushing them back towards Trump."

"If Hillary had been to Michigan this often we wouldn't be in this situation.” Lovett's voice had an unmistakable edge. Tommy wondered what exactly Lovett meant by ‘this situation’. What parts of their current circumstance did he regret? Trump, obviously, but Crooked Media? Bringing Tommy into his life to make things awkward?

"Right." He shook off thoughts of regrets. No time was a good time to go down that path, but this was a particularly bad time. Especially when Lovett was making Tommy's point for him. "We don't want to make the same mistakes as before."

"Last time I checked, you weren't the one running for President."

"No, but—“

"Though you're certainly running from something."

Tommy's counterpoint died in his mouth. He was trying to make this easier, for fuck's sake. For all three of them.

"This is the second time you've extended your trip,” Jon’s tone was a careful contrast to Lovett’s, always the mediator, “and it's not that you haven't been getting good content, but there are responsibilities here that are important too."

"Ben has been doing great leading on Pod Save The World."

"Yeah, of course," a hint of impatience crept into Jon's voice, "but there are conversations that _we_ need to have that—“

"I know it was rough last time, but I can pick up a better microphone before we record on Monday." Tommy started to google for the closest Best Buy. Or maybe he could order something to his next hotel?

"_Tommy_," Lovett groaned, sounding so aggrieved that it stopped Tommy in his tracks. Lovett hadn't directed anything except bland political analysis and defensive sarcasm at Tommy in several days. And okay, he could admit to a bit of deliberate obtuseness here, but couldn't they take a hint? There were some conversations that he didn't need or want to have. Being formally rejected, two times over, was one of them. Maybe if they'd both stop trying to bring up what happened so that they could segue smoothly into never talking about it and pretending they'd been drunk enough that it didn't count, then things would be easier. 

Tommy waited, breath bated, for Lovett to drop the axe. But he didn't continue. Instead, the mess of pixels on screen warped, flickered, and snapped back into a live picture. Jon's wide, wounded eyes and Lovett shielding his face from the camera hurt, but they weren't a surprise. That Lovett's other hand was tangled with Jon's was. Tommy stared at their interlocked fingers, stunned.

Not that platonic friends couldn’t hold hands, but the three of them generally didn’t, hadn’t. Wasn’t this just the biggest fucking irony? Tommy lost his grip on his feelings one time and not only did he confirm that neither of the people he'd been carefully not pining for over for the past nine to twelve years had feelings for him, they ended up with each other, a danger that hadn't even been on his radar. Lovett wasn't interested. Jon was _straight_.

Jon tightened his hand on Lovett's, a squeeze of reassurance and comfort, a vice around Tommy's heart. He dialed the eyes up a notch, to devastating effect, and said, "Please, come home."

Fuck. Whatever Jon asked for in that tone of voice, Tommy knew he’d end up agreeing eventually. He just needed a little more time. Maybe in a couple more days, after Michigan, he'd be more prepared.

Abruptly, Lovett sniffed and rubbed his eyes. Tommy was glad that the resolution of this call wasn't high enough to be sure if it was exasperation or tears.

"We," Lovett started, and helplessly, Tommy’s mind raced to fill in the gap, _have something to tell you, still want to be friends, don’t want to be friends, want to break your heart in person_, "miss you," Lovett said instead, with bald sincerity. It knocked Tommy's defenses back like nothing else could have.

"Do you?" If Tommy had meant this question to sound anything other than deeply vulnerable, he'd failed. "It looks like you've been getting on very well without me." There was maybe a hint of bitterness there too.

Lovett didn't deny it. He looked down at his and Jon's joined hands and his mouth curled up into a soft smile, like he couldn't contain it. Tommy's chest ached again, but it was easier to bear this time. He could grow the fuck up and stand it, if they were this happy. If he squinted, he could maybe even see a future where he was glad he'd catalyzed this for his two favorite people.

"Well, I'm happy for you." Now it was actually happening, Tommy was grateful to feel some analytical distance asserting itself. He had been running away, and it was time to stop. He'd still go to Michigan, that was good journalism and a vital chance to bed this new acceptance in for a few days before he put it to the test properly, but he could do that and be back by the middle of next week.

Jon lifted their hands and kissed the back of Lovett's, quick and sweet. Tommy forced himself to keep watching. He needed to get used to sudden stabs to the heart if he was going to make it to November.

Somehow—Tommy couldn't have done it if it had been him, his fucking _face_, seriously—Lovett tore his eyes away from Jon's sappy, lovesick look. "In our defense, we wanted to include you, but you fled the state, so..." Lovett was using his joking tone, the light, yes-and one, not the spiky, steer-the-fuck-clear one, like he was finally offering Tommy the chance to gloss over everything that he’d wanted all along. 

There was something though, in the way that Jon's breath caught and his fingers tightened once more around Lovett's, in the flicker of Lovett's eyelids, like he wanted to break eye contact but wasn't letting himself, that made Tommy consider Lovett's words more carefully.

"You wanted to include me?" he asked, the hard-won distance of a few seconds ago evaporating in an instant under the slightest glimmer of hope.

"Of course,” Jon's free hand jerked towards the screen and then fell back, like he'd wanted to take Tommy's hand too and forgotten for a moment that he was too far away to touch, “it's the three of us, it's always the three of us. Together. If you'd. If you'd be into that."

"If I'd be into that?" Tommy repeated, incredulously. He'd never even allowed himself to think of an outcome that good. "Of course I’d—" He couldn't finish his sentence, but Jon started to beam at him regardless, "I think I made my feelings perfectly clear, but you didn't even _say_ anything—"

"Hey!" Lovett protested. His voice wobbled, but he was smiling. "If you'd hung about for even a full minute instead of running away—"

"All I ask is a little bit of time to process complete upendings of my relationships," Jon chimed in.

"—or got the afternoon flight like we'd planned, and which the company had paid for by the way—“

"We were meant to have breakfast before you left!" Jon’s glare was softened by the big dumb grin on his face.

"—then we could have had our big gay—"

"Bi," Tommy interjected.

"—mixed-orientation confession of mutual feelings in person, like nature intended." Lovett wrapped his rant up with a nod.

Tommy was too happy to feel properly foolish, but he was beginning to regret some of his recent life choices. "I'm sorry.” 

“Then you'll come home? To us?" Jon asked.

“I’ll be on the first flight tomorrow.”


End file.
